As they clung, the lamp flared up once, then sputtered out. There was the stinging odor of burnt kerosene and charred wick. They did not notice it, nor the clinging sweetness of the bruised honeysuckle. Tom Rice had one clear thought. The house was crowded; every other room was filled. Out of the moist fervor of the moment the woman realized that her head was against the flowers on the floor--the back of her head, and not her face. She was too weakened from hysteric sobbing to protest when she found herself lying along the soft fragrant surface; nor did she longer wish to. He felt on the tense skin of his neck the touch of those maddening teeth. Their lips met again in the breathing darkness. She stirred out of his arms, when the bony fingers of gray-bodied dawn reached through the closed shutters and touched the crushed flowers on which they still were. “Come, dear,” she whispered softly, the gray pallor twisting her plain face into a grotesque tenderness. She kissed his twisted cheek with shy eagerness. He took it passively; the taut thrill of the past hours had gone. He watched her, as her fingers set the flowers to rights. Meditatively he replaced the two chairs at the two ends of the front wall, where they had first been. They should be found so. The two watchers took up their almost ended vigil. Morning, and Aunt Teby’s black coffee, should find them so--the morning of the funeral. [23] Copyright, 1921, by The Pagan Publishing Company. Copyright, 1923, by Clement Wood. THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY OCTOBER, 1921, TO SEPTEMBER, 1922 ADDRESSES OF MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES NOTE. _This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based simply on the magazines which I have consulted for this volume, and which have not ceased publication._